


take my heart clean apart

by TeaLies



Series: growing up (is certainly a trial by fire) [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awesome Pepper Potts, But he's trying his best okay?, Gen, He's just a tiny thing now, Jarvis (Iron Man movies) is a Good Bro, Like a kid, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Pre-Iron Man 1, Pre-Iron Man 2, Precious Peter Parker, The most precious!, Tony Stark Doesn't Like Being Handed Things, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, What Peter gets: struggles, What Peter wants: snuggles, Young Peter Parker, i miss him, just a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-05-28 11:17:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19393024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaLies/pseuds/TeaLies
Summary: Moments where Tony Stark struggles to reconcile his playboy, hard-drinking, fun-loving past-self with the reality and difficulties of parenting a recently orphaned kid, and all the joys and heartache it involves.OR: they always say that the first twelve months of parenting are the hardest shock to the body. Tony isn't going to be the first one to dispute this claim.





	1. The Beach

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for taking an interest in this little fic! FYI, Peter has just turned five and it's 2006. So two years before the events of Iron Man.

* * *

There are moments, golden and bright and sweet, where Tony is caught between powerful waves of uncertainty that _this_ isn’t really meant to be his, and the urge to close his eyes and remember the words spoken months ago, in a dream no less, by a woman who is long-dead. Split down the middle between fear and gratitude.

Moments like this; Peter, asleep in the back of the car after a full day spent at a carefully chosen beach. His brown curls catch in the easy summer light, still damp with sea-water, their ends ignited to copper. A live-wire in a system of circuits and bulbs, something new and uncertain. Not quite hammered into place.

The day, Tony has to admit, was one well-spent. No pedestrians to disturb the trio as they’d wandered up and down the shore and then set up shop on a random dune. Lunch of sandwiches, watermelon slices and chilled beer for him and Rhodey and juice-pop for the kid. And then him left watching as the kid raced Rhodey up and down the shore until they were both panting, diving into the cold waves without any inhibition, squealing for Tony to join in. Full of so much energy that he felt tired just watching.

“Geez, Tones, eyes on the road.” Rhodey nudges him in the ribs. “Kid won’t wake up anytime soon.”

Tony opens his mouth to snark something about five-year-olds and _this kid’s inability to sleep through a light rain shower_ -

And the kid lets out a little sigh. Contentment is practically glowing from his sun-reddened skin, the slightly burnt tip of his nose.

Tony shuts his mouth. Moments like these, they _do_ something to him. Render a choicey snark as redundant and out of place as a hammer amongst fine china. The person in the backseat is a weight he’s not used to and happens to carry with him the same sort of panic he’d feel strapping a forty-tonne nuclear warhead to his chest _. Explosive_ doesn’t quite do it justice.

But whenever there’s the temptation to speak, to act, to throw off that weight, throw it away from him, another sensation makes its way into the ring. Hand-like, reaching out and closing his lips. Stopping him.

_Don’t destroy this. Let it be._

Since when he has ever listened to the calm voice of logic?

Peter snuffles in his sleep, turning over with a squeak of leather and wet clothes. Salt hangs heavily in the car. There’s a smudge of chocolate ice-cream on the kid’s cheek; Rhodey’s indulgence for a five-year-old who has catapulted himself into their lives with very little trouble.

_Fuck,_ Tony thinks, _this is so perfect. Too perfect._

The hand releases him and there are a dozen more words instantly filing into his mouth, twisting his gut. Urging him to turn the car around, pull over, throw up every bit of peppermint ice-cream he’d reluctantly swallowed under the expectant gaze of a best friend and a kid.

A kid who is now, somehow, his.

It’s not right, this bubble of quiet. It’s like waiting for an explosion, for the scene to be thrown apart with reds and oranges and black, reminding him that this stuff doesn’t happen without consequences.

But…nothing happens. Tony keeps on driving, slows down for the rough patches so the kid won’t wake, and bites down on the wasted words.

Instead of bitterness, the silence bursts with sweetness, sticking to his teeth and tongue like melted candy.

Maybe, over time, these moments won’t choke him so much. They might even comfort, rather than rub at his skin like he’s the one with sea-salt all through his clothes. 

Maybe even sometime soon. So long as he has the patience to wait it out. 

* * *


	2. The Playground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are playgrounds meant to be this hazardous? Or heartburn-inducing?

* * *

For all their faults, kids turn out to be surprisingly trusting.

Maybe even stupidly trusting. Tony isn’t quite sure which is which, because his one has taken the advice of some random kid to climb all the way up one of those spider’s web apparatuses only to realise that he can’t climb back down.

“-I can’t!” The boy wails. “It’s too high!”

The seven-foot distance between his feet and the ground is beginning to give Tony a bit of heartburn and the itch to call for backup. Or run. (He’s not sure whether it’d be towards or away from the playground). Which. Is ridiculous and definitely not a good way of trying to encourage a kid to do something he doesn’t want to do.

Tony shoots a glance to the nearby cluster of Mother’s Group. They've been there all afternoon, hovering and smiling like that'd be enough to get his attention. Which, admittedly, it was. But now their hovering has turned into something more like staring. Some turn away as soon as they realise he’s noticed, but most just keep on staring. It’s so…judgy. Weighted. Like they’re some of Obie's bigshot lawyer-sharks, testing him out for weakness.

“Kid. Just- try for me, huh? It’s definitely not as high as you think.”

When there’s no reply, he sighs. “If you hurry, we can get hot dogs.”

“It’s too high!” Peter wails, but slowly sticks a foot out, puts it on the nearest rope. Keeps it there. He’s not so high up that Tony misses the faint, blurry motion of the rope inching sideways from the force of the kid’s trembling.

Somehow, his feet lead him to the base of the structure. Climbing that in loafers and a three-piece is _definitely_ out, especially when he’s got an audience….but there’s no denying that the heartburn is getting stronger. 

What does he do? Negotiate? Hot dogs only worked so far as to move the kid’s foot, so the carrot is definitely dropped. Does that leave the stick?

It’s an uncomfortable thought, but he’s getting desperate when there are at least a half-dozen eyes pinned to his back.

“C’mon, kid, I’ve got a meeting with Miss Potts in half an hour, and I really can’t be late. If you don’t hurry up, I’ll leave without you.”

Instead of providing the incentive to move faster, it does the opposite.

A horrific howl of despair bursts out of the kid. “ _No!_ Don’t go! _”_

Isn’t this kid supposed to be smart? Tony has to bite down a frustrated curse as heat builds in his chest. This isn’t working- but he can’t lose it in front of the judgy mummies or the kid. Respect on both sides will be lost.

“Then come on down, kid. I’m literally right down here. You can do it.”

By some miracle, or maybe Tony’s sheer force of will-power, the small figure begins to move. Inches slowly down, one foot after the other, hands clinging to the rope hard enough that it wobbles.

The hot air begins to expel from around his chest. Thank god for that.

“Yeah, good job, kid! You’re on your way now!”

Peter’s close enough that Tony can see the tiny, tremulous smile on his flushed cheeks. Another step-

The kid slips.

“ _Fuck_!” Tony throws himself underneath the falling body, and forty-nine pounds of child crashes down, sending them sprawled across the ground. Tony sees stars, blood roaring in his ears and swelling the frantic thump-thump-thump of his heart. Is he dead? He feels dead. 

“Mr. Tony!” Tiny hands pat his face and a knee pushes into his stomach. “Mr. Tony! I’m sorry- I’m _sorry_! Wake up- I’m s-sorry!”

“Ugh,” Tony groans, wiggles his toes and fingers just to double check, and then slowly sits up. Everything aches, and his head throbs like it’s been split open. Gingerly, he touches the throbbing spot. No blood, and nothing feels broken. Except for his pride, everything seems to be in working order.

The stars fade from his vision, just enough to glimpse the kid. His face is streaked with tears, but instead of being irritated, some unknown warmth runs up his spine. And then that warmth is followed by something more familiar- _relief_.

"It's okay, kid. I'm- I'm fine." 

“I’m sorry!” The kid squeaks. “I- I-”

“No, me first.” Tony interrupts. He’s earned that much. “You- uh- you did good! Look- you’re on solid ground now.”

Peter’s face scrunches. “But- but I hurt you-”

“Nope, I’m good. Nothing broken. See?” Slowly, with as much dignity as a man can get after sprawling onto his ass in tanbark, he stands up and brushes off his suit. “I’m standing.”

The kid looks up at him solemnly. “You have tanbark in your hair.”

“Where?” Immediately he’s brushing at his hair. “Did I get it?”

The kid shakes his head. “Nope. It’s still there.”

He huffs, torn between frustration and the strange urge to laugh. Must be the impact. “God. Alright. You get it out, then.”

Kneeling provides closer proximity to the kid than he’d like with a face and body still aching, but he’s surprised at the gentleness of those tiny fingers as they ruffle his hair, picking at the clumps of mulch. Something digs into his throat, closing it up. Would he have been this gentle if it were Howard? Would he _know_ how to be gentle? 

Hurriedly, he clears it. “You got it?”

“Most.”

“Most is fine.” Tony waits for the kid to back away before righting himself. Every bone in his body groans, promising hell for the next day. “Not perfect, but it’ll do.” 

Peter’s eyes drop to the ground. “Okay.”

A chasm gapes between them, stretching out in the kid’s trembling voice. He’s done something wrong. Somehow, he’s blown it.

“Hey.” There’s no time for barriers. He reaches out and takes the tiny hand in his. “Hey, kid. What do you think about hot dogs?”

“Hot dogs?” Peter lifts his head and Tony feels little fingers wrap trustingly around his hand. The warmth breaking through his skin is like the first mouthful of brandy. Sharp, clean, intense.

“A reward for your climb. What do you think? Hot dogs good enough for a brave kid?”

“’M not that brave.” Peter mumbles. “I fell.”

“Yeah, you did,” Tony walks the kid out of the playground, towards the car parked at the curb. “But you climbed first. Most seventh graders wouldn’t go that high. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, shyly, and then his face brightens. “Can we get Wendy’s?”

Like he said: trusting.

* * *


	3. The Drop-off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First day, early-morning school runs are a lot more stressful than they look.

* * *

While there are days where looking after a kid seems almost a breeze thanks in no small part to the assistance of Rhodey, Happy and Pepper, there are others that seem determined to remind him that he is ever the universe’s plaything. At its whim. Forever stuck doing an unfair amount of labor.

Days like today where the universe likes nothing more than to shit on a decent sleep by reminding Tony that he’s expected to-

“Drop him off?” He stares blearily at the glowering figure of his assistant. She looks like she wants nothing more than to smack him over the head with the clipboard tucked into the crook of one arm.

“Yes, Tony. Drop him off.” Pepper’s voice is like ice. “It’s his first day of school, and you’re late.”

_Shit._ Tony struggles to sit up; the duvet has tangled itself around his legs and it is so tempting to just flop down and go the fuck back to sleep. What even- what’s the time anyway?

The clock’s face shows the numbers seven-fifteen. He groans.

“What- when do kids start school? Eight? Eight-thirty?”

“Eight sharp.” Pepper says. “And before you ask me, I have a meeting with SI that I have to attend, since you are still ‘indisposed by crippling illness.’”

He winces. So maybe it wasn’t his best excuse. And judging by the tall decanter of brandy, now more than three-quarters empty, neither was drinking himself into a stupor the night before. And he can’t even remember _why._

“Right,” he waves a hand to the door, wincing again as his head gives a vengeful spike. His tongue feels and tastes like melted rubber. “Is there- coffee? Espresso?”

“I’m late,” Pepper says, the refusal clear. “And you said you’d drop him off on time.”

Had he? The previous day- and the days before it- are more than a little fuzzy. He stands up and nearly pukes from the vertigo. 

“Oh, god- yeah, I know, I’m going. Just- is he ready?”

“If you’re asking if I’ve arranged his snacks and books and bag and got him dressed, then yes, he’s ready.” His assistant still sounds like she’s considering castration as he haphazardly pulls on the nearest shirt and pants, but even with an unholy hangover it’s impossible to mishear the _concern_.

“Mister Stark- Tony- you promised you’d be ready- are you sure you-?”

Ready- that’s the word of the day. Maybe even the week.

“It’s fine, I’ve got it.” He says, a little brusquely. Which. Isn’t her fault.

It’s no-one’s fault but his that he’s sleep-deprived and running on nothing but an empty stomach and a bitter taste in his mouth. Being late is probably worse than not being ready; being late drags with it a scolding and the image of him trying to pull on a professional apology-face around the deep bags under his eyes and the desperate tug in his gut. Sincerity won’t run this early in the morning and with him being who he is, so there’s nothing for it but to hurry.

Hurry into the waiting sportscar, yanking kid and one flimsy piece of toast with him. Hurry down early-morning Malibu, weaving in and out of traffic while trying to keep the curses to a minimum and avoid scratching- _do not scratch_ \- the very fresh paintjob. Hurry out of the badly parked sportscar, yanking kid with him. 

Days like these are ones where Tony’s reminded of the incredulity of it all as he nudges a kid off the sidewalk and towards the school entrance while also trying to avoid the incredulous gawping. There's an ever-growing knot in his gut promising he is truly, totally, completely out of his depth and a mantra in his head that reads something like _fuckfuckfuckfuckwhatamIdoingamIdoingthisright_ -

“That’s first bell,” the kid reliably informs him over the peeling noise coming from a set of speakers. It drills into his ears, sending the spikes of pain up to eye-watering. What he would give for a wrench and two minutes alone with those speakers...

“Yep, so I heard.” He rasps, leaning back to eye the curly hair, the newly-bought Thomas the Tank Engine backpack and tries not to feel desperately lost.

“You, uh, got everything? Books? Lunch?”

The kid nods, dark eyes following the positive _stampede_ of tiny tots gamely hauling their miniscule legs up and over the front steps of the school. It would be funny, if not for the fact that there are dozens of them and so dozens of parents, all of whom he can feel practically drilling holes into him and the kid. He gives it ten minutes before the first load of paps arrive. 

“Yep. I’m okay.”

“You’re okay? Good to go?” Tony doesn’t know what to do so he settles for planting his hands on the narrow set of shoulders and peering into the kid’s face. How can someone so stressful be so goddamn small? 

“Yeah.” The kid gnaws on his bottom lip, “Miss Pepper’s walked me here heaps.”

The casualness of the kid’s tone paired with the mention of his ever-organised assistant manages to make a small, insecure part of him _twinge._ She might have been able to get the kid to school on time, but it’s not her who’s standing here in the weak September sunshine and forcing back a migraine.

Hastily he slams a lid on it. “Okay. Um. Do you want me to walk you in?”

Logically, he should. It is, after all, the kid’s first day. But then there is the gentle pat-pat-pat of shoes on the sidewalk, and a very pretty dark-haired woman is standing in front of them, lanyard dangling down to reveal one _Emily McLauchlan_.

“Hi,” she says, apparently utterly unphased by the fact that Tony, Malibu's resident and arguably most famous billionaire, is standing in front of her wearing nothing but old sweatpants and an AC-DC shirt. Her eyes are focused on the kid. “That was first bell. Time for you to head in.”

Uselessly, Tony says, “it’s his first day. I’m- uh- do I come in? With him?”

Whatever memories he has left of his youth are pitted by absences of his parents. His first day of school is one he can’t even remember, but he’s fairly certain that neither Howard or Maria Stark were there at the front gates to say goodbye. Or walk him in. Does that make him obligated to do the same? Or does he do the exact opposite?

Emily McLauchlan shakes her head. “No, we like to encourage independence by saying our goodbyes outside the gates.”

He sags with relief, turning towards the kid. “Okay. Time to go.”

Peter nods dutifully, still chewing on his lower lip. “Okay.”

And then his eyes flicker up, and there is something very close to consideration, to weighing, in them. Something unnervingly close to curiosity on the round face of a five-year-old. 

Before Tony can do anything, the kid is wrapping his tiny arms around his legs. “Bye, Mister Tony. Don’t forget me!”

He catches Emily McLauchlan hiding a smile as Peter turns and hurries up the stairs, backpack nearly tipping him over. He quickly glances away. Watching that touselled head disappear after his fellows brings with it a sensation like his heart is stuck somewhere between his throat and his knees. There’s a rush of blood to his chest that feels awfully close to heartburn. So much heartburn. More than he’s ever experienced pre-child. Maybe it’s time to schedule in an appointment, get that checked out. 

“School finishes at three-thirty, Mister Stark.” Emily McLauchlan says. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

Days like these are the ones where he’s got no clue of what to do and feels very much like he’s trying to grow a fifth limb. Or swim against a current that is determined to overpower him. Days like these are the ones where he thinks he could be infinity better at this clumsy routine but falls ridiculously short of the finish line. And yet, days like these are also ones where somehow, by some god-given miracle, he manages.

They manage. 

“Yeah,” he says, and fights down a smile. “I’m sure he will be.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading, guys! Your comments and kudoses make my day!


	4. The Argument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter how old you are, arguments always manage to bring out the worst in you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in this chapter- it was being very difficult. But here it is.

* * *

You’d think after years surrounded by every conceivable type of person, be they oily-skinned lawyer, peace-loving protestor or hell, even his own father, Tony would be used to a fair share of insults. You don’t get to become CEO of one of the world’s largest advanced weapons manufacturing company without insulting a few significantly powerful individuals along the way, and these people have a thing for tagging their insults with promises of lawsuits, death threats, you name it. He’s heard it all.

So how is it that three little words can cause so much damage? Words are just that- words. Why is it that three little words from one particular person can hurt more than all the snide comments about his father’s infidelities, his mother’s weakness or his own reputation as CEO?

It started easily enough. The fact that the argument was started by a five-year-old? Well, what can he say? Kids are bratty, and even placid little Peter was no different.

“But _whyyyy?”_ They’re outside the doors to his lab, and the kid’s kicking up a fuss because Tony won’t let him come in. His lab is like other people’s rooms in that it’s made entirely to serve his own desires. Except in place of comfy pillows there are boxes of wrenches, hammers, soldering tools, and instead of a bed there’s a desk that stretches at least eight feet across the room. To be blunt, it’s no place for a kid; especially one that has been grating on his nerves since eight o’clock in the morning.

Jesus. His head pounds, and he takes a long drag of his coffee, which, thanks to the kid demanding he hold Tony’s hand all the way down the stairs and thus turned their pace to something an eighty-year-old would consider slow, has gone stone cold.

“Because this,” he sticks an elbow towards the blissfully silent, waiting room, “is my space. One that doesn’t keep kids’ company.”

It’s a perfectly reasonable argument. He’s been playing nanny for the past nine and a half hours since Miss Potts and all her backup are stationed in SI, trying to untangle a proposal gone wrong, and all he wants right now is just a few hours to himself. Is that so wrong?

Apparently, it is. “I wanna stay with you!”

He stifles a groan. “And I want a little bit of me-time, okay? Do you understand that?”

The kid whines, a sad little noise that only adds to the spikes running through his head.

“Kid,” Tony says, feeling his patience rapidly deteriorate. “That isn’t going to work. I’m impervious to whiny toddlers.”

Abruptly, the kid’s face changes. He yanks his hand out of Tony’s and his eyes narrow. “I’m not a baby!”

“Woah, okay, no need to shout.” Tony says, and in a last-ditch effort to keep his temper, calls up a logical proposal. “You want me to listen to you, you just ask, okay?”

But Peter isn’t prepared to listen to logic, if the red flush of his cheeks and the wobbling set of his lip is any indicator. “I’m not a baby! I’m not!”

Ugh. Tony is so done with this. “Alright, then,” he says, voice dropping to something that he tells himself isn’t a growl, “prove it. You’re not a baby? Go on upstairs and entertain yourself for a few hours while I get rid of my child-induced headache.”

“I hate you!” Peter shouts in his shrieky little kid voice, all high-pitched and grating and small. “I hate you! You’re the worst!”

And Tony’s patience _snaps_.

“Yeah, well, I’m not too fond of you either! Do you think I like looking after a snotty little brat all day instead of running a company? You should give me some credit for putting up with your shit all day!”

It’s incredible how expressive a face can be. How pain can slice across soft features, turn the eyes watery and the mouth to trembling.

“You said a _swear,”_ the kid says, and Tony watches helplessly as tears roll down those soft cheeks.

A knife punctures his lungs. He did that. He caused that. A strange noise pulls at his throat. “Peter-”

The kid turns and runs all the way up the stairs. He is, after all, only five. Tony is three decades older and only wishes he could do the same. 

* * *

Sometimes, there are nights where old memories rise up and consume him, and all that’s left is falling into old habits. Hey, Tony’s only human and the human race is, as a whole, renowned for making colossal mistakes. Just look at his chequered past- or don’t. Don’t poke your nose into the darker parts unless you want to get caught in the quagmire. 

Days- _nights_ \- like now, where he drinks like he’s still twenty-four and the world’s most eligible bachelor, drinking with the tugging weight of new responsibilities. Or maybe it’s to forget those exact things. Like the exquisite tearing of his heart as his father sneers and promises that he’ll be remembered as the man who failed the Stark line. His mother’s last smile.

Drinks and drinks until the black edge recedes from his vision and all that’s left is fluorescence, neon, electricity-

“M-Mister Tony?”

The wobbling voice momentarily brings the lip of the bottle to rest against his lips. It’s an effort to turn his head, sends his vision spinning, but he manages to peer through the haze.

A kid. _The_ kid. Standing at the door’s entrance, eyes watering and bottom lip trembling.

( _He did that. He caused that)_

Heat rises up his neck, coiling in his spine, running down his liquid-heavy stomach. What the _fuck_ was he thinking; a kid, _here_? Near him? 

“ _Go_ ,” he says, and he must be drunk because the word is sharper than he intends, cold enough so that the kid jumps. Or maybe it’s his vision blurring. What the hell does he know?

“Go….find your nanny. Yvette- Tessa- the one with the—the—curls.”

Damn it all to hell, that’s Howard speaking. Howard’s words in his mouth, and after everything he’d said about not being his father, being better, being greater, it’s all one massive fucking lie. Sons always, always replicate their fathers. Why hasn’t he learned that by now?

“I….I….” the kid’s voice wavers, tiny shoulders heaving. A broken thing- something that needs fixing, and isn’t that his job? Putting his hands on something and fixing it. But Tony doesn’t know how to fix. When has he ever fixed anything? All he knows is how to break, how to destroy, to ruin.

“Get out,” he says, and— _shit_. The bottle slips from between his fingers, lukewarm liquid running across his sleeves, soaking into his shirt; Another mistake. Another accident.

Goddamn that stupid, stupid, sentimental, hopeful letter.

Heat rises to his mouth, and his stomach twists. “ _Go_ —!”

Vomit replaces any other words he’d been trying to force out, splattering across the concrete floor with an abrupt violence that only comes from being wholly shitfaced. Tony heaves, once, twice as instinct takes a firm hold over his brain, squeezing his stomach into a fist until he’s gasping, head spinning and eyes watering.

When he looks up again, tries to make out a kid-shaped size by the door, it’s filled by another figure.

“This is wrong, Tony.” Pepper Potts says. She’s all harsh edges and bright lights, paired with that silky red hair and a voice like ice. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

He laughs past the acidity staining his mouth. “What? You think- you think I’m wrong? I’m _right._ ”

“There’s nothing right about you drinking yourself into an early grave or yelling at a five-year-old _child.”_

“He- he-” shouldn’t have set him off. No, shit, the kid shouldn’t be near _him_. Shouldn’t be in a place where he can get hurt. Tony shuts his eyes, miserable. What is right, in this place?

“Kids need love, Tony.” Pepper says, and her words are electricity, jolting up to his chest. “They need you. Not a nanny. Not a distant figure who sees them once a day. Not someone who drinks and parties and ignores them when they’re not useful. They need all of you.”

His mouth sours. Sometimes, there’s nothing left in him. All there is, is hollowness, regret, a multitude of sensations that all amount to a black void. Gradually eating him from the inside out. And what can he give a kid who demands all of him? Even his tired, empty heart?

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	5. The Flu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep, it turns out, is a relative thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it! Thank you so much for everyone who has commented and kudosed so far- you make my day!

* * *

Sleep has always been a relative thing to Tony Stark. However, he has to admit, the reasons for its relativity have drastically changed over the space of eleven months. Previously he’d been trading sleep for parties; booze-filled schmoozes at The Ritz until four in the morning, or intimate little gatherings where he’d make rounds with half of Malibu’s models draped on his arm. Who needed sleep when you could be out garnering the adoration of every business-savy associate in town?

But now, sleep turns out to be a totally relative thing thanks to the implosion of his personal life and the subsequent adoption of a four- nope- _five-_ year-old kid.

One who has been running a 100-degree fever and wheezes like he’s lived the entirety of his short life smoking a pack a day, and coughs and coughs and coughs-

“Goddamnit,” Tony mutters, and rolls out of the stranglehold of silk sheets. The time between sleep and wakefulness has long since blurred together, the hours taking their toll on his body through a constant aching in his back, the slow twinge of his neck. No matter how hard he tries, there’s no shaking the nagging concern for the kid several rooms down, and it seems that it’s begun to physically manifest in him. 

“JAR, give me an update on the kid.”

The AI’s voice is perfectly cool and unaffected. “Mister Peter has been restless for several hours; I do not believe he is sleeping.”

Tony rubs at his face, trying to work some feeling back into the over-warm skin. “But he’s alive, right?”

“As far as I can tell, Sir.” How is it that the AI can sound simultaneously amused and calm? The tone of voice brings to mind a certain long-suffering assistant and the long looks she’d given him when he’d pointed out his concerns. Right now Miss Potts is back at her own apartment refusing all calls after a specialist (child) doctor had given the kid the all-clear and a recovery time of 24 hours, but for the last night- night and a day? Who the hell knows, it just feels like forever- she’d fielded his growing concern with that same mixture of quiet amusement and steady calmness as the AI installed throughout his house. 

_“It’s just the flu, Tony. He’ll be alright. Doctor Justine is a highly regarded doctor and knows what she’s doing.”_

_‘You need to calm down’_ went unsaid throughout their conversation, but Tony could tell she was tempted to say it. But every time the kid so much as coughs it’s like his heart’s trying to beat out of his chest, and staying calm just doesn’t seem like the right response. Are they meant to be sick for so long? Why is _his_ still burning up? When does a fever break? Doctor Pursed-Lip said another couple of hours, but it still hasn’t receded and what does breaking even _mean_ \- breaking isn’t the right term for something that is _boiling_ his kid from the inside out-

“Sir,” JARVIS’ cool voice nudges his thoughts back to the dimly-lit room, the exhaustion weighing him down. “Mister Peter has called for your presence. Repeatedly.”

_Shit._ Is the first thought to pop into his head. And then- “yeah, I’m on it.”

Tony begins the short walk out of his room and down the hallway. Even past the slow, dark waves rising around him, the heavy blinking of his eyes, there’s a faint spark of disbelief that jolts through his mind; the pre-childrearing part of him, equally stunned and ridiculing his compulsion to check on a child who should by all means and reasons be sleeping off his illness, not asking for him.

But Tony’s had a lot of time in the past eleven or so months to think it all over, and while there is nothing he hates more than self-reflection, he’s come to realise that those bitter seeds of thought are better left untended. Ignored. Whatever- he’s a mechanic, not a gardener. The kid asked for him, and there’s no-one else in this place to replace him. 

And frankly, while it _is_ ridiculous, him losing his mind over a child, isn’t that exactly what has happened? From the moment he read Pepper’s letter, a part of him had been cracked open and lost over the spectre of the kid down the hall. Weighed and imagined the prospect of _this_ and _him_ for so long until the kid had felt practically real.

Blue seeps from underneath the door, spilling across the carpet at his feet. The kid’s still got his night-light on, and as Tony creaks open the door the small figure battles against the plush duvet, struggling to sit up. Abruptly an image comes to him; Maria Stark, pale-faced and golden-edged, holding his hand as he tosses fitfully in cotton sheets. It strikes him like the lash of a chain, a shock of electricity. Most of the memories of his mother are when she’s older and her presence less golden and more tangible. This, however, is softer; painted with the gentleness of youth.

Tony swallows down the lump in his throat and tries to think of something to say that’ll suit this strange new situation, where he hesitates at the door and the kid sits up in the bed with expectancy written all over his face.

He tries. “Hey, kid. How’re you going?”

“M-My chest hurts.” Peter wheezes. His eyes are an echo of the memories chasing Tony, but gentler.

Tony crosses the room and pauses in front of the poster-bed. There’s a glass of water by the bed, untouched- probably left courtesy of Miss Potts, or maybe even Happy.

“You, uh, had some water?”

When the kid shakes his head, he offers up the glass sitting on the little orange bed-side table. “It’ll really help, y’know. Make you feel a whole lot better.”

The kid’s glazed, exhausted expression turns considerate and then willing. He nods.

With hands that are surprisingly steady, Tony hands over the water. And it drops straight out of the kid’s grasp, spilling onto the duvet.

“ _Shi_ \- shivers,” Tony quickly rights the glass before all the water can spill out. His chest writhes as he glances at the flushed face. “Guess you’re still pretty tired, huh?”

The observation is meant to be silent, but there’s something about standing hunched over the kid’s bed with an aching back and exhausted mind that just makes his thoughts flow out so much easier. But Peter doesn’t seem to care; he sighs, looking impossibly small against all the blankets and duck-feather pillows piled around him, hair damp and flattened against his forehead. Or maybe he is just too tired to hear.

“Alright,” Tony says, and hesitantly lifts the glass to the kid’s lips. “How about I hold it and you drink?”

Peter accepts this, drinking like a man parched, his pale throat swallowing with alarming rapidity. Up close Tony could count the sweep of every dark eyelash or even measure the width of the tiny fingers wrapped over his own hand, could feel the shudder of his own heart deep in his chest, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“You want more, kid?” He offers as soon as the water’s drained.

“No,” Peter shakes his head, eyes glassy with exhaustion. “’M going t’ sleep.”

There is a softening in his chest, a quiet crumbling. He clears his throat. That’s his call to leave. “Alright. Sleep well.”

And he puts the glass down and moves to the door.

“ _No.”_ A tiny whine comes from behind him. “Don’t…don’t go.”

His exhaustion-blasted mind leaves no room for irritation to crop up, but it does allow surprise to illuminate momentarily through him. He turns back and sees the kid with a hand stretched out to him. For him.

Well, that’s new.

Tony pauses. The words coming from his mouth are far softer than he intends. “You…you want me to stay? Here?”

The kid nods. “Next to me.”

Tony eyes the bed. A good frame, but promising one hell of a crick in the neck if he falls asleep. “Okay, but you’ll have to move over.”

Peter struggles against the duvet, eventually managing to inch over until his small shoulder is resting against the wall. Carefully, Tony lowers himself down onto the bed, feels the mattress dip a little under his weight. There’s no chance of him staying on top of the mattress without getting close to the kid, so they end up pressed against each other like two sardines in a tin. Normally the physically closeness would be enough to make his skin itch, but he’s just so damn weary that all energy is directed towards A) not falling off the bed, and B) not squashing Peter.

“You alright?” He checks, glancing down. The kid nods, and yawns. 

Tony sighs. Definitely not his usual place of rest, but it’ll have to suffice. And damn if the mattress isn’t comfy, if a little cramped. Whoever chose it probably deserves a raise…

“Mister Tony?”

He cracks open his eyes, beats back the wave of sleep intent on pulling him down. “Huh?”

Peter is staring up at him, and his eyes shine in the dim blue-black shadows. “I had…I had a dadda. He used to read me stories, but now he’s gone.”

Oh. Tony feels his throat convulse, his limbs stiffen. This is not what he’s expected. Not even close. But he can’t- he gets the sense that if he says something wrong, or doesn’t say anything at all, the kid’ll just…fade away. Close off.

Or maybe he will. 

So he tries to find something that’ll work. “Yeah?”

Peter glances down. “Didn’t….didn’t he want me anymore?”

Tony opens his mouth, and a strange noise comes out. He shuts it. There’ve been many times where uncertainty has been moulded into determination, hesitation into a leap of…of, well, faith. When you’re in the business of manufacturing goods, you can never be wholly certain of anything. Government policies change. Numbers fluctuate on a dime, facts suddenly alter and become mere possibilities.

But he’s never been struck so deep by the certainty that this, right here, is something he has to get _right._

“He wanted you, Peter,” Tony says. “I never met your dad, but I’m….I’m one-hundred percent certain that he wanted you. Even….even when he’s gone.”

The kid’s eyes lift to his. “Are you going to be my Dad, now?”

Tony doesn’t understand why his throat is closing over, why there’s the sense that his chest is being carved open and filled with warmth. But there’s so much hesitancy in Peter’s eyes, so much uncertainty drawn across his face, and Tony suddenly wants nothing more than to let the kid know that everything is settled. Everything is as it should be, and he can sleep with the surety that _this_ means _safety_. Certainty. Even if he feels wholly, entirely unqualified for what this kid’s asking of him, and the weight of it all has just landed on him and filled him with a deep, overwhelming fear, he wants the kid to know that he’s okay, now. He’s safe. 

But that’s too many feelings to put into words, and Tony doesn’t think he’s capable of anything more than what he says now, quietly. “If you want it. If- if you want me to.”

Peter leans over and rests his head against Tony’s chest. “Can you read me a story?”

Tony inhales, and is surprised to hear the air shudder. “Yeah. Yeah. JAR- JARVIS? Any, um, any suggestions?”

The AI’s voice is gentle in a way that Tony never programmed him to be.

( _After all, what purpose does_ gentleness _have in the house of Tony Stark?_ )

“ _Le Petit Prince_ comes highly recommended, Sir.”

“Bring- bring it up, please,” Tony says, and begins to read a story about a little prince stuck on a moon with only a rose for company.

Maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t slept for twenty hours, but as he reads and the kid’s head grows heavier on his chest, finally lulled into sleep, Tony’s got the sense that something has shifted. Call him crazy, but the little kid asleep on him suddenly has the same unshakable weight as gravity. And Tony is no longer drifting alone. He’s no longer a bunch of loose wires with no unit to centre them. He’s always going to have this weight on him. He will always be pulled back down. Back to Peter. 

The future yawns open, terrifying and alien. Of all the possibilities he’d imagined his life taking, he’d never-

Not even once-

But the proof’s resting against his chest. Fast asleep and trusting in Tony to keep his sleep peaceful. 

Moments like these are ones where Tony shudders under the weight of it all. Where he thinks ‘damn, but that’s a lot of weight to carry’ even as he picks it up willingly. Even if it all proves nigh-impossible, moments like these are ones where he feels irrevocably changed. All for the kid asleep in his arms.

Well, he thinks, shutting off the holograph and closing his eyes, it’s a start, at least.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was definitely one of the trickier ones to write. I hope I did it justice.   
> Anywho, stay posted for more fics coming your way- I'm nowhere near done with this verse!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is all included in my larger series, "growing up (is certainly a trial by fire)", so please check it out if you're interested.  
> Also, comments and kudoses are food for my soul. Thank you!


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